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by Ed Bennett

"I love lying here in my bed at 'Treetops' gazing out the oriel at
the Eucalypti with the sun hitting the leaves and the dappledness
of the trunks."
—Sharmagne Leland-St. John

The night ends in a whisper
as the bedwarm corners of the room
hold your scent, the lavender of
a thousand errant ships.
Dregs of starlight edge
the stillness of your reluctant slumber.

Sleep, my love, as the raucous sun
crests a new horizon,
casts the slant beams of this nascent day
across the newly dappled trunks
of swooning Eucalypti, fragrant in
the newly roused morning breeze.

What you have given in the callow dance
of wandering stars is a gift,
a bequeathal worthy of kings and conquerors
yet placed lovingly in my arms,
inconsequential and needing you,
mute, save for my breath and heartbeat.

I peer through the oriel
at a day ringed with promises,
emerging as one so different
from the previous dusk.
Sleep, my love, as I run my thoughts
through the well of my incomprehension.

This day, too, will fade to shadow
and its footfall toward eternity
will be my engendered joyfulness,
a gift preserved in the amber
of your touch between starfall and
the sunlight of this sentient morning.


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